Secrets of an Accidental Duchess (41 page)

Yet he was deathly afraid of meeting his beloved after a six-year separation. Poor Langley.

Langley blew out a breath through his teeth. “What if I say something wrong? What if I…?”

Jonathan shook his head. “By all accounts, the lady is as besotted with you as you are with her. There’s nothing you could possibly say that would offend her.”

Langley gave him a baleful look.

As much as Jonathan could sympathize with the panic of a man about to face the shackles of marriage, there was no way in hell Jonathan would be going to Portsmouth. He knew he’d eventually come face-to-face with Serena Donovan’s twin sister, but it wouldn’t be today. He’d had months to prepare for the eventuality of seeing her, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He was a damn coward.

Well, he’d always known that, hadn’t he? He’d been a coward six years ago. Nothing had changed.

“I can’t go to Portsmouth today,” he said in a kindly voice. “Sorry, old chap. I’ve a meeting with my solicitor, and it cannot be missed.”

Langley’s face fell. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

Jonathan drew back a bit, unused to hearing Langley curse. “You’ll do fine.”

Langley grimaced. “I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I am right.”

“But… you will come to the soiree?”

“Of course I’ll be there.” He didn’t want to go to Langley’s soiree, but he would. He’d promised Langley he would go. That would give him a full week to prepare for his reintroduction to Meg Donovan.

Serena and Phoebe ate in the common room at the inn, where they were fed a heavy breakfast that made Serena feel weighted down and greasy. Neither of them was used to such lavishness, but Mother had scraped her pennies so Serena, Phoebe, and their new maid, Flannery, could spend one night in this particular inn. Even this breakfast had been an extravagance, and Serena’s purse was uncomfortably light after her payment for it.

But of course they couldn’t give the appearance of genteel poverty. That simply wouldn’t do.

Today Serena wore her new cherry-striped silk with puffed sleeves and a satin-net trim on the skirt and cuffs. She hadn’t worn it on the ship, per Mother’s orders. She’d wanted Serena to reunite with William Langley in a spotless, crisp new gown.

“Are you ready?” Phoebe patted her coiffure. Of the five sisters, Serena and Meg had resembled Papa, with golden-streaked blond hair and gray eyes. The three younger girls looked more like their mother, with the same snapping blue eyes and a reddish gleam in their blond hair.

“I’m ready.” Serena sighed. As ready as she’d ever be.

“I’m stuffed like a pig,” Phoebe announced.

Serena’s brows snapped together. “You should be happy Mother’s not here,” she said under her breath. “She’d whip you for that. Especially if you spoke that way in the presence of her sister.”

Phoebe elevated her nose primly. “Which is exactly why I shall not speak so in Aunt Geraldine’s presence. I’m sure Mother would hear of it immediately and fly all the way from Antigua like a rampaging dragon to punish me. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” Serena chastised mildly.

Phoebe probably didn’t remember, but Serena had been equally impertinent before she and Meg had gone to London six years ago. Everything had changed when she’d returned without her sister at her side. She’d withdrawn into herself.

Mother had been devastated by Meg’s death, but she had been somewhat gratified to learn that the bulk of Serena’s rebelliousness had drowned along with Meg. Unfortunately, Serena still had a scandal of enormous proportions hanging over her head, ruining any chance whatsoever of a respectable gentleman asking for her hand in marriage.

Her rebelliousness hadn’t drowned, though. Serena had just forced it to plunge below the surface. It threatened to emerge every day, but she kept it firmly concealed.

Serena and Phoebe retired to a sitting room where they pretended to sew while they spoke in muted tones and awaited Captain Langley’s arrival. Eventually, a gentle knock sounded on the door, and Serena froze, needle poised.

“Come in,” Phoebe called.

The door opened a crack to reveal a maid. “There’s a gentleman come, miss. Says his name is Captain Langley and he’s arrived to escort you to London.”

This was it. This first meeting would decide once and for all whether Serena had the nerve to go through with this charade. Her heart thumped through her body, as loud as a clanging church bell. She was surprised no one else seemed to hear it.

Phoebe set her embroidery aside and rose, brushing her skirts straight, and Serena realized she was expected to do the same. Moving her limbs was like moving solid iron. It took every bit of strength her body contained.

Can I lie to this man? Can I be what—and who—he wants me to be?

How could she? This was all her mother’s doing. Serena hadn’t even known what was happening. She should end the ruse right now, before the lie spread through London, before it was too late.

Serena stood, straightened her spine, and nodded to the maid. “Show him in, please.”

It seemed like hours passed before Captain Langley appeared in the doorway. He was quite a handsome man, tall and lithe, with angular features and dark brown hair. He wore a stiff collar, a snow-white cravat, and a dark blue coat. His eyes were his most handsome feature, Serena thought. Meg had always spoken highly of his eyes. They were kind, expressive eyes, of a rich, deep brown.

“Captain Langley,” she said in the smooth, cultured London accent she’d spent endless hours practicing under her mother’s watchful eye. “It is so lovely to see you again.”

“And you, Miss Donovan,” the captain said. His voice was soft, but his bow was stiff. “I trust your voyage was comfortable?”

“Indeed it was. Please”—Serena gestured toward Phoebe—“allow me to introduce you to Miss Phoebe Donovan, my sister.”

Phoebe bobbed a curtsy, and Langley gave another stiff bow. “Miss Phoebe.”

When he turned back to her, hope and expectation brimming in his expression, tears surged up in Serena so powerfully and so quickly she almost couldn’t contain them. She dipped her head so Langley wouldn’t see the shine in her eyes.

How could she possibly meet his expectations?

When she was little, Papa used to say that he could always tell Serena from Meg because Serena had the silver gleam of a sprite in her eyes, the spark that promised mischief. He’d always teased her about it.

He hadn’t been there to see the change in her after Meg died, but Serena had seen the difference in the looking glass. The sprightly gleam faded into cloudy shadow, and her eyes had changed from sparkling silver to flat gray.

Langley strode forward and gathered her hands in his own. His hands were large, firm, and comforting.

“Miss Donovan.” His breath hitched, and he squeezed her fingers tightly and shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. Then he murmured, “Meg. I never thought you would come after… I mean, I hoped—I prayed—that I would see you again, that you would respond with an
acceptance to my offer of marriage… But to have you here… my love—it is a dream come true.”

As his words sank in, it struck Serena for the first time that her mother’s lies had deeply affected another person outside the core of their family. This man truly did love Meg. He’d loved her for years. Captain Langley would be devastated if he learned the truth of what had happened that day on the
Victory.

She looked up and stared into those deep brown eyes brimming with emotion. Langley was a good man, a respectable man. He was the man Meg had loved, and now Serena had the power to destroy him.

She squeezed his fingers in return. “I missed you,” she whispered.

W
illiam Langley gazed over the bow of his ship, the
Freedom,
at the rippling gray surface of the ocean. Though the seas had finally calmed, a slick of seawater coated everything, and half of his small crew were still snoring in their bunks, exhausted from keeping them all afloat through last night’s storm.

He ran his fingers through the beads of water along the top rail of the deck. They were soaked through and it’d probably be a month before they dried out, but they were no worse for wear.

Now they could go back to the task at hand—seeking out smugglers along the Western Approaches. In the nearly windless morning, the
Freedom
crept along in an easterly direction. They were about halfway between Penzance and the Irish town of Cork, though it was likely the storm had blown them off course, and they wouldn’t get an accurate reading on their position until the skies cleared. God only knew when that would be. In the
interim, he’d keep them moving east toward England so they could patrol the waters closer to the coast.

“She did well, didn’t she?”

Langley glanced over his shoulder to see his first mate, David Briggs, approaching from the starboard deck.

He smiled. “Indeed she did.” His fingers curled over the deck rail as Briggs came to stand beside him. The
Freedom
was a newly built American schooner rigged with triangular sails in the Bermuda style, a sight rarely seen among the square-rigged brigs and cutters on this side of the Atlantic. But his schooner was fast and sleek—perfect for the job she had been assigned. And sturdy, as proven by her stalwart response to last night’s storm.

She was, above all, his. Will owned what some might call an entire fleet of ships, but since before the first nail was hammered into place, the
Freedom
had been his. Three years ago, his carefully rendered plans had been sent to Massachusetts with detailed instructions on how she should be built. And now, with every step along her shiny planked deck, the satisfying twin prides of creation and ownership resonated through him.

The only area in which Will had relinquished control was in the naming of his ship. The name he’d wanted for her would be too obvious. It would raise too many smirking eyebrows in London society. Even his best friends in the world—the Earl of Stratford and his wife, Meg—would frown and question his sanity if he’d given the ship the name his heart and soul had demanded.

So instead of
Lady Meg,
he’d agreed to the moniker suggested by the American shipbuilder—likely as a joke, since they knew well that he was a consummate Englishman—
Freedom.
It seemed everything the Americans
created had something to do with their notions of freedom or liberty or national pride. Yet, surprising himself, Will had found he wasn’t opposed to the name. For him, this ship did represent freedom.

Being out here again, on the open sea, on this beauty of a vessel and surrounded by his hardy crew—all of it was freeing. The bonds that had twisted around his heart for the past two years, growing tighter and tighter, stifling him until he was sure he’d burst, were slowly unraveling.

Out here, he could breathe again.

He glanced over at Briggs, who was scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sleep well?”

“Like the dead.”

“You should have slept longer.”

Briggs raised a brow at him. “I could say the same to you, sir.”

Langley chuckled. “Touché.” Briggs was right. He’d achieved no more than two hours of sleep in the predawn hours. He could have slept longer, but he’d been anxious to survey the
Freedom
in the light of the day. He was glad he had. The anxiety and energy that had compelled him into action since the beginning of the storm was gone now, and he felt… not exactly happy, but peaceful. For the first time in a long while.

“No sightings this morning,” Briggs said.

“No surprise there,” Will answered.

Briggs nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, well, it’s bloody foggy.”

“And we’re too far offshore.” Will had a theory that the particular ship they were pursuing—a brig smuggling thousands of gallons of rum from the West Indies—remained close to the shore for several weeks at a time.
Instead of using one cove as a drop for its cargo, it used several—dropping a few barrels of rum here and another few there so as to throw the authorities off their scent. These smugglers were wily, and they had proved elusive to the coast guard as well as the revenue cutters for over two years now.

The
Freedom
was, in essence, a spy ship—with only four guns and a crew of twenty they probably wouldn’t stand in a fight against a fully armed brig with a crew of a hundred. Their task, instead of capturing the pirates, was to log the brig’s activities and hand over the information to the revenue officers, who would, in turn, seize the ship and its illegal cargo, and prosecute the smugglers.

Briggs sighed, and Will clapped a hand over his shoulder. “Patience,” he said in a low voice.

Briggs was a few years younger than him and anxious to find the culprits, whereas Will tended to take things slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. The truth was probably somewhere in between. If they waited too long, the brig would be on its way back to the West Indies for its next load of cargo, and they would miss this window of opportunity.